


Soul Stealer

by Bidawee



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Deception, Impersonation, M/M, Manipulation, Past Lives, Past Relationship(s), Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 12:04:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22714117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Bidawee
Summary: He knows how dangerous impersonating a soulmate is. But it's either that, or dying alone.
Relationships: Frederik Andersen/Connor Brown, Marcus Högberg/Connor Brown
Comments: 30
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ...happy valentines day  
you probably don't know who marcus is. here's a good [image](https://cdn.theathletic.com/app/uploads/2020/01/15041307/GettyImages-1193819503-e1579079620483-1024x683.jpg) of him. since me and the soulmate trope had unfinished business, i asked myself why not.
> 
> more detailed warnings are in the endnotes!  
NOT BETA'D, so anticipate spelling mistakes. if there's any really bad ones let me know.

Connor Brown, or who he first knew as C. Brown during those early practice drills, was not at all a stand-out player when they met. No one truly is. A rush of players from the developmental leagues--his buddies--are there with the veterans, in a collection of trades and equipment managers that concentrate the ice with noise. Even when he’s waiting to take over the net, he’s more concentrated on stretching his legs out than making friends.

He gets to know Connor better after shooting reps one afternoon, when, not five minutes into the conversation, he lets drop that he’s soul searching. It’s a dumb, throwaway comment. Marcus doesn’t have much to respond to it with and ends the discussion prematurely by skating away. At the time, he didn’t intend for it to show his displeasure with the concept, but Connor comes around later to say sorry anyway.

“I know it’s a touchy subject,” Connor says. They’re in the parking garage after practice, and he can hear his voice echoing. “Sorry. I wouldn’t want my soulmate talking like that either.”

Marcus isn’t quite sure what he’s saying, so he nods.

“Are you soul searching too? I forgot to ask.”

The right response would be to tell the truth but what comes out of his mouth is: “yes.”

Connor bumps his shoulder, flashing him a smile. “Well, good luck finding them. I’m sure they’re excited to meet you.”

He disappears behind a row of cars in Section F, leaving behind only an impression on Marcus; one that creates more questions than it answers.

Later that night, he argues with himself in the shower about telling Connor the truth before he has to begrudgingly sit in on soulmate talk for the next season. On the other hand, the least he can do is not embarrass Connor, or himself, through a stumbled explanation that might do more harm than intended. He should be allowed to play along; he’s had to all these years.

It’s not his fault that the universe didn’t give him a soulmate.

He knew from an early age, when the magnetism that everyone else had didn’t overlap with his personal space, that he wasn’t intended to be one of the happily fated. Out of complete inconvenience to himself, he tried to get away with thinking that he would grow into it and wake up in sync with the rest of the world. He did not.

There are many a forum post or pamphlet in the physician’s office there to reassure him that this is natural and that a soulmate doesn’t define who he is, but reading those is like drinking lukewarm beer. Playing a sport doesn’t mend the imaginary wound that never stops aching, but it provides a good distraction. In a world that romanticizes the shit out of first meetings, he can’t go anywhere in public without seeing someone on one knee, the other in a state of shock that morphs into contentment with the arrival of a few, happy tears. None of that happens at the rink, or at least not down on ice level.

Inevitably, he matures around guys who use him as their personal therapist. Half of the time, it sounds like they’re making up these chance encounters in their dreams. Everything ends up working out in the end, once they’ve confirmed their stories with their other, but it doesn’t remove that element of suspicion that feels very real, given the circumstances. He’s a good storyteller; he could say he met his soulmate on the train tracks dividing two towns and would be applauded for it; the more unconventional the meeting, the better. 

He would need a soulmate to do that, though. His friends hold theirs close to their chests like they’re a string of pearls. That doesn’t mean he cannot acquire a significant other; albeit, it’s made harder. People don’t like to share.

He commits himself to short-term goals that extend from his hockey outward. He gets himself into the North American leagues and starts a chase up to the Majors. A back-and-forth from the Brampton Beast and the Belleville Senators ensues, sliding him up into second place. And just when it feels like he won’t get the call-up, he finally gets his piece of the pie as a backup on the Ottawa Senators, two years after his initial decision to move.

It’s a harrowing journey, and learning English is like taking a cheese grater to the tongue, but fuck, if it isn’t all worth it. Even when he has to figure himself out for the second time in a day, even when he has to Google Translate the name of a product in a grocery store, knowing his cart is blocking the aisle; the ice is always there to forgive him.

As he hopes it does now.

Connor never became anything more than an acquaintance after the awkward first meeting. He chalks that up to Connor being a forward, one who only ever gets as close as the offensive zone’s face-off dot. They might brush shoulders at award ceremonies if they’re lucky and get put in formations that way, but he never makes an effort to slide in next to him on the bus or use him for English practice.

It’s pure coincidence that puts him the row behind Connor on the plane. They’re flying out of Minnesota right after a game and the whole team is sour after the third loss in a row. Usually, he uses the time to tune into a podcast and wind down for a bit. Tonight, however, he tugs a sleep mask on immediately and tries to forget the world at large.

He gets about thirty minutes of shut-eye before the next interruption drags him back to the world of the living. Having just met turbulence that bumped the flight attendants around, he’s groggy but awake. He needs a brief lapse from sleep before he can go back, and as the two guys in the front row are talking loud enough to be heard, he finds himself listening in.

“You had a loud wake-up call today, yeah?” It takes him a second, but he eventually identifies the voice as Tyler Ennis. Something about the pitch of it tips him off.

“Fuck. I just remember coughing up water and he was standing there. I don’t even remember how I got there: it was just water. Everywhere,” Connor says.

“Yikes.”

“I mean, I was all right. He helped me out. I just,” he inhales, “wish we weren’t always meeting during these awkward, life-or-death moments.”

“If he’s out looking, all he has to do is find the clumsiest guy on the block. Think of how much easier you’re making it for him.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Connor’s voice lowers even more. Marcus strains to hear him. “It’s just--it’s embarrassing. I would hate to go on a whole soul search just to find me at the end.”

“He’s found and loved you all the last times. I don’t think you almost drowning in a past life is a deal-breaker.”

Connor sighs. “I don’t know how you do it. If I had to look for anyone less remarkable I would tear my hair out. No offence.”

“Don’t remind me. At least you’ve got a whole ass continent to find them by. For all I know, my soulmate is probably in Japan or something.”

“Scandinavia isn’t a continent, but thanks.”

The conversation moved on from that point, hopping from place to place on one leg before finding common ground on complaining about the food at the practice facility. Marcus doesn’t follow them for much longer, but he does think more about the very casual conversation he was able to spy on because of his location at the time. The fact that people throw their personal lives out there for the world to see confuses him to no measure. He’s even seen blog posts; each entry another century where the two have met in the hopes of their soulmate someday reading it and matching their experience.

What’s stopping him from fabricating the details on his end? Sure, it might take a stroke of luck and some charisma to smooth over the discontinuities, but it’s doable. More than doable. One of the reasons why the pamphlets and websites get out there and try to reach a larger audience is to stop the pandemic spread of soul-stealing that’s been inflamed by the rise of social media.

He didn’t pay it much heed before. Now, it’s brought to light an interesting dilemma. And it’s not like he’s short on soulmate talk from Connor. He dreams more frequently than most—or at least gives the impression of it—and doesn’t shy away from talking about it, even at the crowded airport. After a few days of shadowing him on the bus and around the team’s facilities, he already has a basic profile of the man Connor is looking for.

Red hair (the colour of fire, as Connor put it). A scruffy beard. European, but specifically Scandinavian. Big (not tall enough to tower over him like a goliath, but enough to command a presence of awe). And of course, always saving him from danger.

It’s not _ that _ large of an order to fill. The more he thinks about it, he begins to place himself inside that narrow configuration of aligning elements that would put him in the running. His hair is a reddish-brown colour that won’t fool anyone, but his beard comes in orange, which helps his cause. He might not be an expert on the schematics of soulmates but he knows generational variation is bound to happen as souls develop and place themselves into new vessels with each reincarnation. With that in mind, the red hair could just be a temporary feature, something he has enough in common with to have inherited, but not his defining characteristic.

What started as a simple idea begins to unravel. He finds himself around Connor at inopportune moments, laughing at his jokes, and even finding the patience within himself to let him take a few more shots on net after practice is done and he’s bone-tired. It’s not one of those big, romantic gestures he knows Connor loves, but it’s the best he can do. They even get lunch together, once. Sure, Enzo is there with them but he’s sitting beside Marcus. If he uses his hand to block him out, it’s just the two of them,

Connor is his type. He’s easy to love and gives so much of it back. He knows when to calm himself down and keeps himself open to the suggestions of others. He also tries very hard. Both on and off the ice, he sets an example. He will give Marcus space after loss, but be available to talk to when he feels ready. Before he stops to ask if he’s got his priorities out of whack, he’s already experiencing romantic feelings.

There might be someone out there that’s a better option for him, but he’s not about to get picky; not when the hand of cards he’s got gives him a good chance.

Maybe at night, when he’s having trouble sleeping because of the guilt, he can deceive himself into believing that he’s the one on horseback, picking Connor up from the fields and taking him away from a life of hardship and farming in the dust. He thinks that he’s capable of laying over Connor for hours to save him from hypothermia after being submerged in a river in winter, as his soulmate did. He could follow him into the forest and track him down, using only his voice and the songs he sang to approach him with a declaration of love. That could’ve been him; maybe he just didn’t know it. Connor’s trade to the Senators might’ve been fate working her magic, deciding Marcus was worth the trouble after all.

He _ could _ go find someone else without a soulmate and be satisfied in this life, but since when has love ever played fair? He’s not going for second best this time.

It would be too much to come onto Connor. The forwardness might arouse suspicion. Instead, he tracks down Enzo and manages to get him to agree to a night at his apartment, using food as a lure. It doesn’t happen instantaneously; he first has to initiate a few conversations earlier in the week so that it’s not weird when he asks him to come over. Enzo, to his credit, is nothing but sympathetic to his offer, even when it’s asked in broken English that’s been made worse by his nervousness.

Over homemade pizza served by the whole and not the slice, the room eventually cools to an atmosphere that’s a lot easier to get sentimental with. Kicking his legs to the side, he waits for Enzo to finish talking about how his younger cousin is learning to tape his stick to change the topic entirely.

“Enzo,” he starts. “Do you have a soulmate?”

Enzo sits up, straightening his shoulders. “Yeah. You too, right?”

“Yes.” His paperwork reflects that now, him having filed as a dormant soul just weeks ago. He wouldn’t have been the first. “I just do not know you…” he knows the right word in Swedish, but it doesn’t come to him, “talk about them here.”

Enzo cocks his head. “What do you mean?”

“My dreams.”

“Oh. Oh! Yeah, we talk about them all the time. Did something happen with yours?”

“I dream of a boy on the sand of Sweden. With hair like fire and wide eyes.” It’s hard to paint a portrait of a lover, worse when it’s something tangible. Be too specific and you lose your authenticity, too vague and you can’t pin one individual down on it. “He was drowned. I found him there.”

“Shit. You okay?” Ennis is looking at him with concern. He might not have underpinned the right tone. Too far in to turn back, he commits to it.

“Yeah. I see him a lot. He’s uh--I see it happen to him. I’m used to it.”

“I’d freak if I saw my soulmate drowning.”

“What does yours look like?”

“They change a lot. They always have this scar on their upper lip and a birthmark behind their ear. I’m uh--one of the few that changes a lot. Physically.”

Marcus nods, even if it’s a bit rough on his understanding. It’s something comprehensive for Ennis, enough that he can skim over the important details and still have it make sense. For Marcus, it’s a whole new world.

“So you’re still looking for him?” Ennis moves on.

“Yes. That is why I come to Canada.” His ears are beginning to burn. 

“Wow. I thought Connor was the only one who had a soulmate living far away.”

“Connor is...soul searching too? I hear--heard,” he corrects himself, “him tell me once.”

“He’s been looking for forever. Every so often he thinks he’s found the one, but it blows over really fast. I keep telling him that he needs to slow down and smell the roses before anything ends up happening.”

“Smell the roses?”

“Oh, it’s an expression. Like, ‘enjoy life as it is.’ Does that make sense?” Although Marcus nods, he continues. “He should be certain before he puts his life and career on hold to chase random people down in wine-tasting ceremonies which, if you don’t believe me, was a thing that happened in Toronto. I’m giving you permission to tease him about it.”

“No thanks. Do you think his soulmate plays hockey?”

“Unlikely, but not impossible. I try not to think the leagues are the ideal meeting place. Soulmates aren’t an ideal form of currency and they don’t keep a team in a playoff spot. I’d hate to find someone and then have them ripped out of my hands.”

Before the conversation gets too off-topic, he intervenes. “Connor, he--I feel bubbles around him. Like I saw him before.”

“Have you?”

“No. It just makes me feel good.”

Enzo hums. “He is a great guy, I won’t deny. Are you like, wanting to be friends with him? Because he won’t say no.”

“He looks like my soulmate.”

The conversation flatlines. Enzo looks wide-eyed when he finds the courage to tip his head back. 

“Really?”

“Red hair. Big smile. I remember those things.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you told me. Holy shit. And you were talking about him drowning earlier right? Was it on a dock?”

“On a...you call it a dock? It is on the ocean.”

Enzo hides his face in his hands. “Wait--seriously? Shit. Fuck, man, are you two soulmates? What else do you dream about?”

“One time I am king and he comes to me for farming. For food. Another he--no--_ we _ go on a boat together, to Canada.”

“And the boat was awful, right? You had to sneak on?”

“Yes, we go to the bottom of it. I held Connor--”

“--in your arms, because he didn’t have a ticket. You son of a bitch. You’re actually his soulmate,” Enzo completes the sentence for him, inadvertently giving Marcus more detail in the process.

He thought Enzo was insulting him, but he looks so happy. By then, he’s leapt up from the couch and giving him a handshake, which he transitions into a hug. Marcus is wrung so tight from the fear of being discovered that he can barely reciprocate. 

Enzo pulls back, a full smile on his face. “You need to tell Connor, right now.”

Marcus exhales. The room reaches a boiling point. Enzo’s smile slips off his face when he sees Marcus hesitate. 

“I’m scared to.”

“No no no, don’t second-guess yourself now. Follow your gut. If you think it’s him then it probably is.”

He shakes his head. For a second, doubt comes in. Maybe he’s in over his head. 

“Do you want me to tell him? I can do it. I’ll do it right now.” Enzo reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone. Marcus holds his breath as he watches Enzo’s hands skim over the screen and type out a short message to Connor, who responds only seconds after the first message goes through.

Enzo’s phone starts vibrating. He picks it up, looking at Marcus the whole time.

“Hello? Hey, yeah yeah. Yeah, I know I said that but we were just talking--” he lowers the phone and walks over to Marcus.

“Do you want to speak to him?”

The phone gets shoved into his hands. He has no option but to respond.

“Hello?” he says quietly, into the phone’s receiver.

“Hello? Marcus?” 

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Hey so, be honest with me.” His voice is shaking. “I know some of the guys joke about this but I take it really seriously.”

“Okay.”

“So you’re like, telling the truth?”

“Yes. Me and Enzo--we talk about you drowning in your dream. When we meet at the beach, by the uh--the uh, the dock. My soulmate has red hair like you. He’s from Canada.”

“My soulmate is Scandinavian.”

“Yes, I’m from Sweden.”

“Yeah--yeah, I know. You said you saw me drowning?”

“And one time you’re farmer. Another one you are in a long coat and we celebrated New Years.”

“Okay. Here, how about you give the phone back to Enzo and I’ll come over and we can talk about it, okay?”

“Okay--” The line goes dead before he can say more.

When he nears, Enzo looks up. He turns down the volume on the television. “What did he say?”

“He wants to talk to you.”

Enzo picks the phone up from his hands and walks toward the main entrance, talking in light, hushed tones. Marcus stands in place, not knowing what to do with his hands. He hears Enzo give out his address as his fingers begin to vibrate. There’s no air in his lungs or his head. If the couch wasn’t beside him, he might fall over.

He’s got this far, even though Connor didn’t sound too convinced over the phone. The wait is torturous. Enzo keeps looking at him like he discovered fire. It certainly feels like it; he’s in a light shirt and already feels torched from head to toe. 

His apartment has never felt so foreign. In that lapse of time, he’s made aware of the dishes stacked by the sink and hoodies hanging over the sides of the house. As they wait for Connor to arrive, he makes the place look a bit more presentable. He moves without even thinking, his mind far away in and amid a thick fog.

When Connor does arrive and buzzes in, his emotions have been bled dry.

Connor’s nose and cheeks are pink. The scarf around his neck is haphazardly thrown on and is slumping down his arm. A gust of cold air follows him inside. 

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Marcus says back.

Enzo closes the door behind them, then excuses himself to the kitchen. Marcus can see the strands of hair poke out from around the corner, but isn’t bothered like it like he thought he would. If anything, he makes it a lot less awkward than it could have been.

Connor keeps his distance and only hands his coat over when Marcus holds out one hand. He shakes the snow off of his shoulders and steps out his boots. Throughout it all, he is composed. Marcus is anything but.

“So,” Connor rubs his arms, “you think you’re my soulmate.”

“Enzo says so.”

“I know he does, but what do you think?”

“I just want my soulmate. I think you do too.”

“Of course I do. I’ve been waiting my whole life. Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

“I...did not know how to say. I could be wrong.”

Connor looks away for a second. He then gestures at the couch.

“Can we sit?”

“Huh? Oh. Yes, go on.”

Connor seats himself on the couch closest to the door. Both of his legs are pressed together. He occupies as little space he can with his body. Marcus sits on the couch to his right, afraid to take up the empty spot beside him.

“Well?” He looks up. Connor is staring at him. “Let’s begin.”

What commences is a process he’s long-since rehearsed for: the practice of confirming. Stories are easy to make up, but they have to be true. After months spent following him around, he has a large library of tales about Connor’s soulmate, from Connor’s perspective. At first, the challenge is finding which one to start with. Some dreams were talked about longer than others, and some are consecutive stories that follow the day in the life of a single lifetime. Everything he says must be perfect, or Connor will know.

From his entrance alone, he thought Connor would be picking at the bones of his observations, trying to scavenge something damning. Yet, as he goes on talking about Sweden as a whole and his experience of looking for his soulmate, he can see the neutral face for what it is: a facade. Deep down, Connor is easy. A quarter of his life spent waiting has turned him complacent. Marcus doesn’t need to trudge knee-deep into the murky waters to find something that he’ll believe. Once the first few coincidences are lined up, it’s smooth sailing. Connor begins to lean forward, his elbows on his knees, and eats up every word. He doesn’t look away, not even when Marcus stumbles and tries to make sense of English,

There’s only one dream that Connor brings up that Marcus had no previous knowledge of. It’s something about being stowaways on a train, but not like the life where they sailed to Canada. Marcus keeps himself vague when he talks about it. It’s not the time to recreate something so obtuse that he blows his cover.

Connor waits for him to finish speaking--ending on a drawl that fades away without much grace--and then closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath in, scratching at his wrist with one hand. When his eyes open again, they’re misty.

“Are you okay?” he asks, unable to stop himself.

Connor nods, breathing slowly. He stands up, making his way toward Marcus. On command, Marcus stands and meets him halfway.

Connor reaches for both of his hands and pulls them close to his chest. Marcus relaxes his fingers, stretching them out so that the tips of his middle fingers touch the shelf of skin above the collar of Connor’s shirt.

“I never thought I’d find you,” Connor whispers. He drops Marcus’ hands and cups his cheek. The tender gesture makes his heart hum. Marcus pushes his face into it. He tries to hold all the love he can mentally carry.

At that moment, he can’t understand why soulmates have to be exclusive. Why does something as pure and hopeful as love deserve to belong only to the mighty? What he sees in Connor is a weakness he couldn’t admit to himself. He unconsciously opens himself up, bringing Connor in for a kiss.

A second after configuring their faces so that their noses are smushed, Connor becomes a lot more relaxed. They kiss for a while longer. Marcus’ hands drop from Connor’s chest to his hips, and he uses them to maneuver Connor forward.

When they pull away to breathe, the words that come out of his mouth pass through no filter.

“Jag älskar dig.”

Connor steps back and for a moment, he fears that he’s exposed himself. It’s short-lasting; Connor buries his face into Marcus’ chest before he can notice he’s moved.

“You would always say that to me. I could never pronounce it.”

“It means I love--”

“--love you. Yeah. I love you too.”

They share a tender kiss. It’s strange, to have so much love thrown onto him. It’s like trying on a new shoe size. It takes them a second to find common ground, and that only makes it that much sweeter.

He’s not doing any harm. Connor’s soulmate is probably far, far away. On another continent. In another world. They’ve had him for God knows how many cycles; it’s only fair that they give him a chance. And who knows? Maybe Connor’s soul will come back to him in the future. Maybe he will break with his previous partner and join him with, establishing a new bond that will continue for generations.

He still feels nauseous after the fact, even after the team congratulates them and it goes down on record. Connor looks so sure of them. He holds Marcus’ hand so tight and never wants to let go, even when they have to for the media scrum or to play.

“I can’t risk losing you again,” he says when Marcus asks him about it in the middle of practice.

Connor’s eyes are round with love. He nudges Marcus with his stick when he skates away, which Marcus returns the favour for later when Connor is in front of his net and gets a love tap. It’s hard to be professional and keep his head in the game when Connor looks at him every other minute like he’s seeing him for the first time.

With the soulmate pairing comes soulmate shit to do. There are coffee orders to learn, parks to walk in together, a canal to skate on whilst drinking hot chocolate, and movie marathons to run through. It’s everything and more than what the Hallmark Christmas movies were advertising on the Discovery Channel at two in the morning. He had no idea how ritualized everything was here, though he’s sure Sweden has its own programming to run through that he never bothered looking at. Not that he would ever bring Connor back to Sweden, at least not so soon. His family might believe his explanation as to how he obtained a soulmate, but that won’t stop them from trying to poke holes into his explanation. It’s safer to let himself get comfortable here, where he knows he’s wanted.

Probably the weirdest thing to get used to is the dreaming, and it’s the only time that he fears Connor will unearth his plot. There’s this stupid thing where they’re supposed to sleep side-by-side in the hopes of entering the same dream; a capture from a previous life. It must be common enough to make sense of doing it, but the panic that wakes him up the next morning is anything but natural. It makes Connor ask him what he saw, where they were, what they were doing. Unless Connor goes first, there’s no way of Marcus predicting that’s occurred. 

Connor is over-enthusiastic to a fault, and that may lend itself to his naivety. Perhaps he just doesn’t want to see the disconnect, and that’s what makes him forgive the discrepancies that pile up. Usually, he can kiss it all better. Connor loves to be held. He _ loves _ to be spoken to in Swedish, even when he doesn’t know what Marcus is saying. 

According to Connor, it’s “the language you would talk to me in, though it sounds a lot clearer now.”

“Because you are not sleepy?”

Connor blinks at him slowly. “Yeah, I think so.” He reclines on Marcus’ chest with a small yawn, soaking up his body heat. Marcus buries his nose in his hair, inhaling.

About a month into the relationship, they develop their pre-game ritual. Connor sleeps over at his apartment and they make meals together. Marcus drives, if only because he has the patience for it, and Connor spends as much time as he can by his stall before it’s time to lace the skates and get out and onto the ice. All that would be nice, but the cherry on top is the pre-game nap. He didn’t know how much he wanted the sight of waking up to Connor beside him, drowsy and frumpled, his curls spilling over his forehead. Marcus makes himself promise to kiss his forehead every time he sees it.

On the ice, and before the game begins, Connor brings him his water. He does so with care and a love that was once foreign but now burns so bright. Being on the receiving end of it singes every wisp of hair on his body. It’s too hot that it makes him want to step back; a flame that needs to be bottled and kept for later. It’s something he didn’t know he needed until now. 

One minute to game time that night and the team agglomerates by the bench to go over strategy. Tonight, the arena is busier. Noise bounces in every direction. When he looks up, he sees blue and white.

The Leafs are in town and the arena is sold out. Anderson is going to be played on the other half of the back-to-back, giving Marcus a rare opportunity to prove himself to the team tonight. At times like this, he’s grateful to have Connor’s support. A former Leaf himself, he deals with the situation a lot better.

“You ready to show them what you’re made of?”

He’ll always be entertained by the things that come out of Connor’s mouth. Nodding, he turns his head to the side.

Connor kisses the side of his mask.

“Did you still want to do Italian tomorrow night?” Connor whispers into his ear.

“Yeah. If you want.” Marcus’ voice is muffled by the cage of his mask.

“I want. You’re probably tired of my cooking by now, anyway.”

“Never.”

Connor beams at him just as the lights go down for the anthems. It’s what pulls Marcus away to rejoin the line of brave players that stare down their opponents. Piece by piece, he removes his sentiments for Connor from his mind. He can’t have them distracting him now.

More distracting than any thought of green eyes and red hair, however, is the dark look he’s getting from the Leafs’ side of the blue line. Right in front of him is a man’s face, contorted with fury. The Leafs’ starting goaltender is staring at Marcus with enough hatred to kill him.

While making eye contact, he mouths the words “soul-stealer.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't planning to write a second chapter so soon, but you guys really liked the last story! Thank you as always for commenting. It truly makes a difference.

He doesn’t need to look over his shoulder to know that Andersen is following him.

Andersen with an E. He doesn’t know much about him, not that he would go looking for information about a complete stranger before the epiphany that Connor Brown, his Connor Brown, belonged to him before birth. 

For over sixty torturous minutes, Marcus is forced to look at him from the other side of the ice. Whenever they make uninterrupted eye contact, Andersen slams his stick down. It’s one of many threatening gestures that he uses to voice his displeasure with. That and the pacing. It makes him look like a caged animal, hiding behind bars that exist for the remaining players’ safety.

For his own sake, Marcus chases Connor away when he tries to check in on him. Just having him close by fires up Andersen. The league had its first goalie fight in years only a few weeks earlier; he doesn’t want to be the cause of another.

He’s too unfocused to stop anything that comes his way. For the first time in his career, he begs to be pulled before the first period is over, if only because he feels safer on the bench. It offers him a meagre level of protection that his crease couldn’t.

But even when the clock runs out and they’re forming a line to walk back into the locker room in an orderly fashion, he knows it’s not over. Escape isn’t an option and as tempting as it is to slink out back and into the parking garage to get away, he knows it’s an alternative he can’t risk. Before he would even be one foot in the door, Andersen will have pulled his name through the mud on every social media website in existence. Sometimes, the best preemptive measure is the one with confrontation in it.

The thing best he can do is keep Connor out of it, in what one might call a form of damage control. It’s one thing to stare down the man you stole a soulmate from and a whole other thing to tell Connor to his face. That level of deception bruises more than just the ego; it’s likely that after this they won’t be able to exist on the same team.

He’s sweaty and gross and opting out of a shower augments the sticky sensation that plastered his clothes to his body. However, it allows him to get dressed and out of the locker room before most of the players can notice and give him heck for it. Connor will want to know what’s wrong; he’s been giving him knowing looks the whole game and that existed long before Marcus started giving up goals to the opponent. Marcus is living on borrowed time as he navigates around the problem of his own design. Hearing Connor ask him to wait up takes a good chunk out of it.

He’s convinced he can’t even hear the soles of his shoes hit tile even when he’s five doors down and crunching the small flecks of salt that soak through the indoor mats. The visitor’s locker room isn’t as far as he makes it seem; he can thank the feeling in his gut for making it appear to be some long walk. Maybe add the post-game exhaustion into the mix. He hasn’t felt this way since Juniors, and even then it was the competitive spirit responsible for churning his guts up inside of his stomach.

He turns the corner and Andersen is there. It feels like he blocks the whole hallway. The goalie equipment and pads were contributors to his size on the ice, but he remains an intimidating figure even without them. There’s only so much that Marcus can compensate for when he’s on the other end of that glare. Behind him, a string of media walks inside the amber-lit room, paying them no heed.

“Soul-stealer,” Andersen says again. The low but not inaudible voice forces him to listen closely.

“I’m sorry,” Marcus says, on reflex. 

The corner of Andersen’s mouth twitches. He advances on Marcus with slow and deliberate steps. Now’s not the time to stand up to him. He can see Andersen’s hands forming knuckles so tight that the skin up to his wrists is white, the veins bulging out. It’s safe to say he doesn’t want to be on the other end of them, if worse comes to worst.

“You took him, knowing he wasn’t yours,” Andersen continues. 

What else is there to say? “I’m sorry.”

“I should report you right now.”

Marcus dry swallows. His fears come alive from under his skin and begin moving around. He itches a patch just below his wrist and it inflames the sensation into an all-out heat.

Even if he could speak the clean and intact English he wanted, he would have nothing to say that would ever apprehend the gravity of the situation. He resents Andersen for having access to a vocabulary that puts him to shame. It’s not the only thing he resents Andersen for having either.

Connor doesn’t belong to him, but surely Marcus has _ some _ claim. He’s made him happier than Connor ever thought he could be. Andersen hasn’t been there. He hasn’t had to carry the mental load of fighting just to survive. His claim comes without him even trying.

He closes his eyes.

“Maybe you have another Connor.”

It’s the boldest thing he could say. He expects it to blow up in his face; the kind of combustive anger that scares Connor and would make him right about one thing, because no one is that fucking perfect for another that even the universe signs off on it.

And to his credit, Andersen does look ready to strike him down. Marcus’ whole upper body is bracing a hit when he sees him stop. Exoneration is the last thing he’s expecting and even Andersen looks surprised at just how much he’s reigning in his self-control. Even a greater man might have broken his nose by now for the sake of recompense. 

That’s when he realizes, Andersen doesn’t need to do anything to him. He has him cornered, and he knows it. He’s gloating.

The vindication passes over Andersen’s face and he inverts back into that straight-backed, noble position. “You can’t be serious. Connor’s been my soulmate since long before the Middle Ages. You think I can’t recognize him? That I’m that stupid?” 

“If...he was yours, you should have tell--told him.”

Tension collects in Andersen’s shoulder. Despite all that and his reddening face, his voice is calm. 

“You think it was my choice not to tell him? That I would throw away my shot of happiness? You’re a backup playing for the fucking Ottawa Senators, you’ve never had to sacrifice what you love for the good of your team.”

“He’s happy with me.”

“Because he thinks you’re _ me. _ Ennis told me all about your confirmation; you two were strangers and it should have stayed that way.”

“Soulmates...go away. They change.” 

“Yeah, because of people like you. Cruel, inconsiderate people who are so miserable with their lives that they tamper with others’. Connor would never have looked your way otherwise, don’t kid yourself.” It’s no longer a question: Frederik is mocking him.

It’s an unfair declaration to make. He’s not a bad person. He didn’t choose this, nor was he powered by anything but the desire to belong to something bigger than himself.

He has to look away to salvage his pride.

Frederik closes in. “You claim you love him, but you’re just using him.”

Marcus sputters, backing up a step. There are voices carrying down the hall that are adding to the claustrophobic feeling. He can’t go forward. He can’t go back. He’s suspended in time, hanging from past misgivings. Someone’s going to hear and _ know. _

“Don’t deny it.”

The laugh bursts out of Marcus’ chest. “What do you want me to say? You talk so high...and it’s not fair.”

Frederik lowers his voice. “Life’s not fair. Some people are millionaires. Some people go on and find miracle cures and some people have soulmates. That’s no excuse to be a shitty person.”

Marcus looks up, ready to answer him back using whatever he can scrounge up but is shut up when he sees Frederik’s face change into something forlorn. His muscles have relaxed, his eyes turned soft, and the combination of both makes him look kinder. As kind as one can look, when a fit of somewhat swollen and morbid anger incubates underneath. 

It’s probably because he’s not looking at Marcus.

“Freddie?”

Marcus squeezes his eyes shut. He turns his head to see Connor standing there, in his button-up and suit jacket, sans tie. He briefly meets Marcus’ eye, then looks back at Frederik as he approaches the two warily. 

“What’s going on?” 

As much as Marcus desperately wants to console him, he’s since lost that privilege. The most he can do is stand his ground, acting as the single divider between the two. 

“Freddie, what are you doing here?” Connor prompts again, when no one answers him. 

“Marcus has been lying to you,” says Frederik. He eyes Marcus from his periphery, allowing him to come clean. Marcus looks at his feet, ears burning with shame.

Connor squawks with outrage. “What are you talking about?”

“He’s not your soulmate.”

It hurts more than Marcus could have ever imagined. That sting, like he’s ripped a band-aid from his arm, fades quickly, but finds its replacement in a low, dull ache that spreads across his upper half. Frederik takes no prisoners. The answer was launched out of him.

But even if he’s long since backed down, Connor is not so meek. He leads the charge with both shoulders hiked up as high as he can hold them. He’s shorter than Frederik but makes up for it in personality.

“I don’t need your protection anymore. Leave us alone.”

Frederik’s face pinches. “I--what?” He lifts his chin. “I just told you he’s not your soulmate. He’s been lying to you, doesn’t that mean anything?”

One of Connor’s hands reaches up and tugs a strand of hair that’s curled behind his ear. “You’re lying. Why else would you care?”

Frederik hesitates for a second, as if to make the grand reveal just that much more palpable--and much more torturous for Marcus. 

He clears his throat. “Because _ I _ am your soulmate. And he stole you from me.”

Connor has stopped looking at Marcus altogether. He levels Freddie with a face that could crack stone. “What?” He dips his chin down. “No.”

“You must have felt something was wrong, right? I know you do. I can feel it too.” He reaches out for Connor.

Connor does not reciprocate. He steps over to Marcus’ side. “Stop. Okay? Just, stop.”

“Connor--”

“I don’t believe you. I love Marcus.” 

His words don’t trip over each other. He doesn’t stop to think. The words leave his mouth and then boomerang back. He sees the phases that Connor’s face goes through as it gradually becomes fractured. The left side of his face doesn’t say the same as the right. The incongruity is the first sign of weakness.

He sees it, and he knows Frederik sees it too. The once impermeable seal is beginning to show cracks. Frederik rushes in, pooling at his feet, trying to make those insecurities rot and fall away, loosened by his patience. 

“Tell me what he confirmed with you if you don’t believe me.”

Connor shakes his head. “No.” His hands curl inward, pushed closer to his chest by his bent elbows.

Frederik latches onto that weakness. “Why not? If you have nothing to lose--”

“I’m not going to be made into this paranoid person who questions everything about themselves.”

“You don’t have to say anything! Just listen to me.” Connor keeps shaking his head, but he continues. “Danish sounds familiar to you, right? You spent so many universes learning it to communicate with me. All that proselytizing during the Reformation...”

“You’re wrong. It was Swedish.”

“No, it was Danish. I know they sound similar. Jeg elsker dig. You know what that means?”

“I’m not stupid.”

“It sounds familiar, right? You’ve said it, what, how many times by now? I don’t even know. You remember that time on the St. Lawrence, I had just pulled you out of the water when your boat capsized on that whitecap.” A tiny smile splits his face. “You got tangled in the seaweed of all things and needed my help.” 

Wait, he knows--

“Yeah, I’m sure I was perfectly capable of speech after drowning.” 

Like an anvil plummeting down his stomach, the dread knocks the air out of Marcus. He feels like he’s ready to throw up. In fact, that nauseous bubble working its way up his throat makes him think it’s about to happen right now.

The blood rushing through his ears blocks out the first of Frederik’s words and by the time Marcus has come to his senses, he’s come even closer to Connor. 

“...you weren’t drowning, you were fishing and the net pulled you in. I was spotting you from the shore. It wasn’t just some random encounter.”

“Why would I be fishing in Denmark?”

“You weren’t. We were in Canada. I immigrated because land was so cheap here, but I didn’t end up farming because I met the boy I would fall in love with on the River.”

Connor’s mouth firms into a straight line. Despite that, his voice is small when he says: “That’s just one scenario.”

“Well, last night I dreamed of you. I had just sneaked you onto the CP Rail, even though you didn’t have a ticket. I was here on diplomatic business for my father’s shipping company when I found you in my room.”

To his dismay, he can see the sparks light up in Connor’s eyes. Frederik is filling in the holes he dug for himself. Marcus stands there and watches his own execution take place.

“I...remember sneaking on, but that’s it,” Connor says.

“You were younger then. Running away from your father, going to Nova Scotia to live with your aunt and cousins. I don’t remember why or how you ended up on that train, but I remember sharing my lunch with you. I pushed you under the bed when the conductor made his rounds.”

Frederik slows down, even though it must be torture to not swoop in and seal the deal. Frederik leans forward, placing the weight of his suspicions on Connor’s shoulders. It probably means more coming out of his mouth, anyway.

Connor obliges him, meeting his rhythm and then surpassing it.

“It was horrible. You made me sleep down there and I kept hitting my head.”

“But I took care of you, didn’t I? You gave me a piece of paper with your address when we parted.”

“You came over for dinner, months later. We had boiled potatoes and carrots.”

“We did. You looked a lot healthier.”

Connor hugs himself. “Tell me something else.” 

He’s half-way convinced, Marcus fears.

“What do you want to hear? I’m sure I could embarrass myself the whole night just by talking about how many times you’ve saved me.”

Connor pushes out a humourless laugh. “I didn’t save you. You were the one always riding in and hoisting me out of harm’s way.”

“You gave me something to live for, when we met in London. You saved me from a death sentence almost four hundred years ago. And many lives before this I was an alcoholic, don’t you remember?”

“I...don’t. I’m sorry.”

“In those lives, and in this one, you’ve been there. I’ll always love you for it.”

Connor drops the hand that was pushing the hair back behind his ear. He opens his mouth to speak, stops, then begins to fidget on the spot. He refuses to look at Marcus, even when Marcus tries to signal him with one hand. He only has eyes for Frederik.

“Why didn’t you tell me? We could have played as bonded soulmates.”

“I made the mistake of reporting a found soulmate to medical. They told me I was forbidden to tell you anything and got it in writing. I figured that they were waiting for the rebuild to be done and...maybe deep down I knew it meant that they were going to trade you. I couldn’t break your heart like that, just after we met.”

“So you just let me go, without even consulting what I wanted? Three years Freddie! I lost those. You did too.”

“I guess I thought that, being soulmates, it would all come together in the end. You could live your dream and be happy, and post-retirement we would reunite down in California somewhere.”

Connor scoffs. “I’m not going to California.”

It makes no difference. Frederik has broken ground. He’s dangerous and feline-looking, with eyes sharpened by the hunt. “Fine. Etobicoke, Toronto, Herning, fuck, even Ottawa. I don’t care. Just come home to me, please.” He takes a deep breath. “I love you. I always have.”

The evidence mounting, Connor finally leaves his side. Both of Frederik’s hands reach out to catch him. Fingers spread, he covers as much of Connor’s surface area as humanly possible. The embrace looks so large it looks to be smothering Connor. As if that’s proof of his love.

It muffles the dry sobs coursing through Connor’s body, making his torso stretch and fold. Frederik emulates the movement to stay with him. The urgency is there. Muted, but ready to be acted on. It’s as if the two just registered the time that’s been lost on a complicated game of cat-and-mouse, one Connor didn’t even know he was playing.

It’s almost a happy ending, he supposes. He can’t speak on whether or not either of them will pursue legal action or not. Did Frederik breach a contract by confirming with Connor? He doesn’t know. He’s lucky to still be in one piece. Frederik could have held him down and choked him and the vast majority of people would be on his side. It’s amazing what the belief in soulmates does to people. It makes them abandon all of their morality.

The loving scene scrapes his skin. Abrasive and cold, it keeps him on the periphery of their intimate moment. He remembers when that love was his. Just that morning, he woke up with Connor on the other side of the bed. He’d laid a kiss on that pale forehead and bathed in the warm glow of the raw, unprocessed trust that he was granted. Falling asleep in front of another human being--knowing they’re there and yet being comfortable with leaving yourself open and unprotected--is the most romantic thing he can think of. It makes him wish he’d cherished that moment before abruptly ending it to make coffee. 

From over Frederik’s shoulder, Connor’s eyes briefly slide over to him, half-lidded and swollen. They don’t linger. It looks painful for him. Their seal is broken. Water’s been thrown on him, his disguise is gone. 

At risk of looking selfish, he hangs around for a second longer to commit this look of Connor to memory. He looks so much like he did when he confirmed with Marcus that very first night. A bit sadder, yes, but with a proud and almost defiant cock of the head that compliments his lopsided smile. 

He waits until he hears Connor apologize to Frederik for the first time. It’s a feeble thing, supposed to make up for choosing the wrong soulmate and being a bad judge of character. Like Marcus was a mistake. Like everything they had was a blip on a much longer timeline.

Unable to justify the cost of saying, he backs his way out. As tempting as it is to turn his head and see love as the universe intended, his wounds are fresh and if he looks any longer, he’s pretty sure they will become infected with envy.

**Author's Note:**

> marcus is one of the uncommon groups of people that aren't born with soulmates. his options are either to enter a relationship with a non-bonded person or try to steal someone else's soulmate, and he goes with the latter. after listening to connor talk about his soulmate, he tries to impersonate the soulmate and succeeds. it's implied at the end that connor's real soulmate knows what he's done and is going to expose him.
> 
> come talk to me on my [tumblr](https://cursivecherrypicking.tumblr.com/). i post stories and prompts in my 'prompts' tag that don't make it onto ao3!


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